When he got to Plainville, he drove into the center of the town, followed the traffic around the square, and pulled into the parking lot behind the courthouse. Recognizing Elise’s car, he parked next to it.
Plainville was the county seat and; despite a burgeoning and somewhat despoiling suburban sprawl around the periphery; the central business area still retained much of the small town, turn-of-the-century atmosphere. The courthouse had been recently refurbished and occupied a full block facing on the square that looked like early Norman Rockwell, complete to the restored, ginger-bread bandstand in the center.
The sheriff’s office was on the main floor of the courthouse but, entering through the rear door, he decided to go first to the coroner’s laboratory in the basement. Descending a short flight of grated, iron steps, he was conscious of the faint chemical odor emanating from behind the glass-partitioned door lettered ‘Coroner-Private-Keep Out.’ But the glass was dark and the door locked. A hand-printed card stuck into the inside corner of the glass panel advised ‘Laboratory Hours 9-5 Mon.thru Fri.’ It was still only a quarter to nine, so he decided to see if the sheriff was in yet.
He climbed back up the iron steps to the rear door landing, and continued up a second flight of marble steps leading to the main floor. Halfway down the wide corridor he saw the projecting wooden sign with the word ‘Sheriff’ painted on it in gold letters. Turning in to the open doorway under it, he was stunned by the sight of the young woman in uniform seated behind a desk just inside.
“Yes sir. Can I help you?” she asked in a pleasant but businesslike tone. She sat very straight in her chair with her hands clasped on the desk. The front of her uniform blouse was stretched taut across an astonishing pair of breasts. His gaze was attracted to the badge pinned to the apex of the left protuberance, like a hand held up in greeting. Forcing himself to raise his eyes to her face, he saw that she was used to his type of reaction-but it did not make him feel any less foolish.
“Is-ah, Sheriff Bentley in yet?” he stammered.
She returned his gaze impassively. “No, sir. But he is expected shortly. Would you care to wait?”
He said he would and she asked for his name and the nature of his business. She glanced up at him with a keener interest when he told her, and then asked him to have a seat. The only chairs available faced her desk. As he sat down, she turned sideways to the typewriter, and he was presented with the sight of an amazing, though mystifying, refutation of the laws of gravity. It was apparent, though, that she did not have any typing to do and was merely giving him the benefit of a profile view. The astounding figure, coupled with her heavy, almost theatrical make-up and vividly red, shoulder-length hair, seemed utterly incongruous in the drab surroundings of the office. She looked the epitome of some of the sleazier forms of show business, or even worse-almost anything but what she was. Seeing her turn to face him again, he looked away and tried to distract himself with the various pictures and plaques that covered the walls of the anteroom-but it was difficult to keep his eyes from returning to that unbelievable bustline. He felt almost relieved when the rotund shape of the sheriff filled the doorway a few minutes later.
She stood, her enormous breasts extending across the desk, the badge quivering. “Good morning, sheriff,” she said briskly.
“Mornin’ Sally,” Bentley mumbled, his eyes fixed on the badge.
She handed him some papers. “This is Mr. Tuesday. He’s here about the accident last night. He’s with the insur...”
“That’s all right, Sally,” he interrupted her. He tore his gaze from her bosom to turn and look at him. “I know Mr. Tuesday. Was kinda’ expecting him, in fact. Been a coupla’ years, but I never forget a face. C’mon in.”
Walking toward the inner office, Bentley motioned for him to follow. He stood aside to let him pass and shut the door behind them. The room was large but seemed crowded by the massive glass-topped desk that dominated it. Walking around one end, the sheriff grunted softly as he sat in the high-backed swivel chair behind it and began to shuffle through the papers the receptionist had handed him. Finally laying them down, he leaned back in the chair, entwining his fat, sausage-like fingers on his bulging mid-section.
“You finally got rid of that chip on your shoulder, Tuesday?”
Despite the distraction provided by Sally, the visit to the sheriff’s office had brought back the memory of the only other time he had been there, two years earlier. It had been in connection with the investigation he had mentioned to Flynn the night before-an accident involving an old, retired farm couple named Beamer. They had been run off the road by another car driven by the sixteen-year old son of the Plainville bank president, a boy named Ronny Stanhope. He, and three other boys about the same age; and a fifteen year old girl; had taken a ride in the country-all very innocent, according to the boys. On the way back; on one of the winding dirt roads at the north end of the county; they had encountered the Beamers. The boys all swore that the Beamers were driving without lights. The girl said she was asleep in the back seat and saw nothing. The Beamer’s car went off the edge of the road and rolled over into a shallow ravine. They were both badly injured. Two of the boys had stayed with them while the others went for help.
When he had questioned the Beamers separately later in the hospital, they both told him that the other car had appeared suddenly around a sharp bend in the road, weaving from side to side. They had tried to get out of the way, but the shoulder was narrow and Mr. Beamer, who was driving, misjudged it and they went over the embankment. He had driven out there but-although it was a dirt road, the weather had been very dry and, especially after the sheriff’s car and the other vehicles called to the scene had driven over it-there were no distinguishable tire tracks to substantiate their version of what had happened.
Figuring that the boys would all stick to their story, he had gone to see the girl. She was from ‘the wrong side of the tracks’, and obviously had been using her well-developed young body to gain acceptance from those on the right side, like young Stanhope. Under questioning by him, the threats and curses of her father, and the wails and recriminations of her mother-and with half a dozen younger, fearful faces staring out of the dark of the only bedroom in the house-she confessed the truth. The boys had bought some beer and they had driven out to a fishing lodge belonging to the Stanhopes. There, the boys had drawn lots and had taken turns “doing it” to her. They had finished the beer, and Ronny and another of the boys had taken another “turn” with her before they had started back. She maintained, however, that she had fallen asleep and really did not know what had happened. After her description of the day’s activities, he had been inclined to believe her exhaustion.
But, when he and the girl and the parents had gone to the sheriff with the story, Bentley had refused to do anything about it. When he had suggested that it could possibly be corroborated by questioning the bartender at the country club who, the girl said, had sold the boys the beer; and by sending someone out to the Stanhope lodge to look for the empties; Bentley had refused on the grounds that no matter what they had been doing before, the girl could not testify about the accident since she admitted to being asleep when it happened.
Living out in the country, and using their car infrequently, the Beamers had carried only minimum insurance, and no accident insurance. When he had tried to play on Bentley’s sympathies by pointing this out to him, the sheriff had merely shrugged and replied, “There’s always welfare.” In the absence of any proof to the contrary, the other insurance companies covering young Stanhope and the other boys, all disclaimed any liability. The girl’s family had no insurance coverage and nothing worth suing for. He had finally managed to get a token settlement from the Beamers own company, but it had only covered a small portion of their medical expenses.
Remembering now, he felt the same revulsion for the fat sheriff that he had felt then-and he also recalled that the report of the accident on which he had relied for his decision, had been prepared by Deputy Bucheck.
“I didn’t come here to open old wounds, Sheriff,” he told him, “but since you brought it up, you may be interested to know that Mr. Beamer finally died as a result of his injuries, and Mrs. Beamer is now living in the county home-on welfare.”
Except for a slight narrowing of his fat-encased eyes, the sheriff’s face showed no change of expression. “That’s too bad. I’m real sorry to hear it.”
The platitudinous insincerity in his tone was difficult to ignore. “I can see you’re deeply moved.”
Bentley sat forward, resting his meaty forearms on the desk. “All right, Tuesday. The Beamer case is a dead horse. Now, what do you want to know about last night’s accident?”
“Have you been able to establish how it happened?”
“Hell-you know as much about it as I do. You were out there and talked to the witnesses.” He pursed his thick lips. “Even took one of them with you when you left. Pretty gal, name of Miss Young, I understand.”
He feigned indifference to the insinuating tone. “The way it happened, it seems possible that the driver may have been either dead or unconscious before the crash. The other witness apparently got the same impression. I was wondering if anything had shown up in the autopsy to confirm it.”
“I got the preliminary report right here.” He picked up the top sheet from the sheaf of papers on his desk. “But, it don’t indicate anything like that. Just says he died as a result of ‘multiple injuries’.”
“Does it say he was definitely conscious up to the moment of impact?”
“It don’t say he wasn’t.” He slid the report across the glass top of his desk. “Here, read it yourself.
He glanced through it, verifying what Bentley had said, and returned it the same way he had gotten it.
“When will the official report be ready?”
“ ‘Doc’ is over at the hospital now, working on him. Probably be ready by tomorrow. But it don’t seem likely that the result will by any different.”
He knew he referred to ‘Doc’ Johnson, the County Coroner, and the Butler County Hospital where the morgue was located. “Possibly not. But there has to be some reason why he apparently made no effort to avoid the abutment.”
The sheriff shrugged, the collar of his shirt almost disappearing in the folds of his neck. “Could be his steering linkage was broken or maybe.”
“Or maybe his brakes failed,” he finished for him. “It’s possible. But the owner of the trucking company says not-and I’m inclined to think he’s right.”
Bentley leaned back in the chair again. “Well, if you want to stop back here tomorrow, I should have Doc’s final report and you’re welcome to take a look at it.”
“Thanks. But I think I’ll go over to the hospital and wait for him to finish.”
“Suit yourself. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
The hint of sarcasm in his voice translated the beneficial “for” to a detrimental “to” . “Yes. I saw Miss Young’s car parked behind the courthouse when I drove in. I made arrangements with your deputy, Flynn, last night for it to be delivered to her at the Glen Park School today, before three. Will you make sure that it is?”
“Well now, Flynn did tell me something like that. But, since her car is evidence, you might say, I’m not too sure we can release it by then.”
He thought he saw where this was heading as he retorted, “Evidence! Evidence of what? The truck never even came in contact with her car. It was undamaged.”
“That’s what I wanted to be sure of. I wanted to have it examined real carefully before sending it back to her.”
“And have you?”
“Not yet.”
“When are you going to?”
“Soon’s my mechanic gets around to it.”
“When will that be?”
“Any time now.”
He didn’t try to conceal his anger. “Let’s stop pussy-footing around Bentley,” he told him. “Is it going to be delivered to her or not?”
“If the towing charges are paid-both ways.”
He thought that’s what he had been leading up to. “I told Flynn the insurance company will pay for the towing. Just send the bill to me.”
“’Fraid I can’t do that, Tuesday. Has to be cash in advance. County rules, you know.”
He took out his checkbook from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “How much is it?”
Bentley made a pretense of calculating the amount on his fat fingers. “A hundred dollars ought to cover it. But, I can’t accept any personal checks. It will have to be cash.”
“This is an agency check.” He turned the checkbook towards him so he could read the imprint.
Bentley ignored the checkbook, shaking his head. “Same thing. It will have to be cash”, he repeated.
Recognizing the obvious motive behind the insistence on cash, he replaced the checkbook and reached in his pants pocket for his money clip. Removing two fifty-dollar bills, he noticed it left him only a twenty and a few singles. He was glad the Sheriff wasn’t any greedier, but made a mental note to cash a check before leaving town. Leaning forward, holding the two bills in his hand, he spoke deliberately.
“I want the car delivered to Miss Young before three o’clock this afternoon. Is there any other reason why it can’t be?”
“Not now,” Bentley assured him. “It’ll be there.”
He let the money fall on the desk and, a moment later, it was swallowed up in the Sheriff’s fat fist.
“I’ll need a receipt,” he told him.
Bentley pressed a button on the intercom and, in a few seconds, the receptionist entered and walked to the side of the desk. Once again he marveled at the apparent defiance of natural law as his gaze was drawn irresistibly to the protruding front of her uniform.
“Make out a receipt to Mr. Tuesday for one hundred dollars, Sally, and bring it back for my signature,” Bentley told her.
As she left the office again, the sheriff leaned forward with a confidential leer. “I could’ve told her on the intercom and had her make out the receipt before coming in, but this way I get to see those titties twice.” He chuckled obscenely. “She’s real proud of them. Just loves to go around sticking them out at all the boys. I swear, if I let her, I think she’d be the first topless policewoman in the country.”
He made no response and had no desire to join in any lewd speculations about the receptionist’s mammary endowments. Before Bentley could enlarge any further on the subject, she reentered. This time he managed to avoid staring at her by forcing himself to watch as the sheriff signed the receipt. She separated the copies and turned to hand him the original, which he accepted without looking up at her. She hesitated for a moment in front of him before turning to walk out of the office.
“That’s what I call real willpower, Tuesday,” Bentley said, as the door to the outer office closed behind her.
He felt himself reddening in anger at his own childishness and especially for allowing it to be so obvious to the obese sheriff. He put the receipt in his wallet and stood up.
“Thanks, sheriff. You’ve been a big help-as always.”
He was sure the irony in his tone was not lost on the fat man, but Bentley gave no indication of noticing it.
“Don’t mention it. That’s what we’re here for.”
He thought he heard him chuckling to himself as he left the office. He stopped in front of the receptionist’s desk and deliberately stared down at the twin volcano-like mounds seemingly on the verge of erupting from her blouse. He continued to stare until he saw the red rising from the open neck and saw her hand moving to shield it from him. Lifting his gaze to hers he told her, “It’s really amazing what modern science can do, isn’t it?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left the office. Outside in the hall, he stood indecisively for a few moments and then turned right toward the front of the building. It had been a stupid and petty thing to say to her, and he felt disgusted with himself for having vented his anger at the grafting, corrupt sheriff on the girl. He should go back and apologize but, what the hell, if she was going to flaunt the damn things the way she did, she should be used to remarks like his-and worse.
He walked down the wide corridor to the main entrance and through the revolving door.